Chapter 130: The Wanderer Returns
Berlin.
Inside the red-brick headquarters of the Wehrmacht, the operations room was lit by a hard, pale glow. A deployment map lay spread across the center table, its corners pinned flat beneath brass weights. Beside it were several blurred photographs, still damp from hurried handling, their indistinct images enough to darken every face in the room.
Jörg sat at the head of the table.
He said nothing at first. He merely looked down at the photographs one by one, his expression so cold and still that the angry discussion around him only grew louder by contrast.
On both sides of the long table, officers of every rank argued in rising voices.
"Those Polish brutes have gone completely mad. They stand on our land and butcher our people in broad daylight. This is not suppression. This is massacre. This is invasion!"
"Then we answer with war. We cross the border, drag those lunatics out of Warsaw, and send them all to the guillotine!"
A more cautious voice cut through the fury.
"We still need to think clearly. A full war is not a matter of sentiment. Britain has a military defense agreement with Poland. Even if we are confident on the battlefield, there are still the economic consequences, the possibility of blockade, the question of foreign trade..."
The room abruptly cooled.
Every gaze, as though drawn by a single command, turned toward Jörg.
He rose at last.
The scrape of his chair across the floor was sharper than any shout in the room.
"We fight," he said.
The words were not loud, yet they struck the table like iron.
"There are things a nation may compromise on. There are even humiliations a nation may endure for a time. But national dignity and national sovereignty are not among them."
He placed both hands on the table and looked at each officer in turn.
"If the Poles want war, then we will give them war."
The silence that followed was deeper than before.
"We will take Danzig back, whatever the cost. If they wish to continue, then we will continue. If Britain and France wish to intervene, let them come as well."
His voice remained measured, but the force beneath it was like thunder trapped behind mountain clouds.
He turned his head.
"Raeder. What is the strength of the Polish Navy?"
On the left side of the table, Erich Raeder rose at once. The navy chief had aged noticeably under the burden of rebuilding a fleet from scraps and secrecy, but his voice was still crisp.
"They recently acquired two obsolete submarines from the British. Other than that, what they have is floating scrap. If it is only Poland, then our submarine arm will have complete superiority."
"Good."
Jörg gave a slight nod, as though confirming a routine matter rather than the opening move of war.
"Recall the experimental boats Dönitz has stationed in the Netherlands. No more trials. Real combat will be the best experiment we could ask for."
He shifted his attention.
"Is the commander of the First Infantry Division present?"
A lean officer in field gray stood immediately.
"Yes, sir."
"In one week, two cargo ships owned by Cardolan Investment Company will arrive in Danzig. I will have every legitimate cargo container on those ships emptied beforehand. The remaining space will be enough to conceal three battalions."
He spoke without hesitation, as though the plan had already been fully lived through in his mind.
"You will select three elite battalions. They are to carry heavy firepower. The moment the ships dock, they will disembark, clear the harbor district, and seize control of the city."
The officer's face tightened with grim excitement.
"Yes, sir!"
"Raeder, your submarines will escort those ships the entire way. Any threat encountered is to be removed before it can act."
"Yes, sir!"
Jörg did not pause.
"As for East Prussia, Manstein's Third Armored Division is currently training there, correct?"
Several officers nodded.
"Then they are to march toward the border at once. The moment our infantry inside the city establishes contact by radio, they are to open fire without waiting for additional authorization."
This time a murmur ran through the room.
To move without another layer of approval was no small matter. It was a sign that Jörg had no intention of allowing delay, hesitation, or politics to seize control of events once the operation began.
He continued, ruthless and methodical.
"I want immediate reports on every troop movement along the Polish frontier. The same applies to troop concentrations in Czechoslovakia and France. If anything shifts, I am to know within the hour."
Then his gaze settled on another figure.
"Rusch."
A broad-shouldered officer from the Recruitment Liaison Department rose from his seat. He was also one of the Progress Party's key men in the interior, the sort who knew how many ex-soldiers, policemen, and club heads could be reached with a single coded message.
"Yes, sir."
"If headquarters issues a state of emergency, you will immediately contact the regional police chiefs and the heads of the veterans' associations. Organized arming is to begin at once. I want a number. How many men can be armed?"
Rusch did not even need time to think.
"If local order must be preserved, five hundred thousand. If local order is no longer a consideration, we can revert to wartime reserve levels."
A few officers drew a slow breath.
Jörg did not react. He had expected the answer.
"Very good."
He straightened, and for the first time there was a visible spark in his eyes.
"In one week, I want the German flag flying over the central square of Danzig."
His gaze swept over the room.
"Gentlemen, can you make that happen?"
Every officer rose as one.
Arms snapped up in salute.
"Forward, Germany!"
The answer thundered through the operations room, so loud that the windowpanes trembled.
Only after returning the salute did Jörg allow the room to settle.
At that moment, his eyes caught Senna at the doorway. One glance at her face was enough. President Hindenburg had arrived.
Without another word, Jörg left the operations room and walked down the long corridor toward the office once reserved for the Commander-in-Chief, a room few had entered in recent years without cause.
Hindenburg was already waiting inside.
The old field marshal stood by the window with a cigarette between his fingers. His eyes were bloodshot, and his face carried the exhausted strain of a man who had not truly rested all night.
He turned as Jörg entered.
"I saw the photographs," he said. "Do you have confidence?"
Jörg did not answer at once. He closed the door behind him, stepped forward, and met the old president's gaze head-on.
"Of course."
There was no boasting in his voice, only certainty.
"For years we have endured. We have swallowed insults, watched provocations, and restrained the Army even when every instinct demanded the opposite. We did so because Germany needed time, industry, and strength."
He took one step closer.
"But some things cannot be endured forever."
His tone hardened.
"Our people were hunted down in their own city like animals. Those who still believed in Germany were cut down on the beach and thrown into the sea. Their bones do not even have graves."
The words landed like hammer blows.
"That debt cannot be negotiated away. It cannot be buried by diplomacy. Blood debt is repaid only with blood."
Hindenburg took a long drag from his cigarette and studied him in silence.
"Aren't you afraid Britain and France will intervene?"
Jörg gave the answer with unnerving honesty.
"Yes."
That single word made the room still.
"Our carrier program is incomplete. Army mechanization is only half finished. Rearmament remains unfinished, our economic problems are not solved, and the political fractures inside the country still exist. If Britain and France intervene in full force today, Germany cannot achieve a clean and decisive victory."
He did not soften the truth. He did not hide it.
And yet, instead of making his resolve weaker, the admission only sharpened it.
"But fear is not a reason not to fight."
He spoke more quietly now, and somehow that made it hit harder.
"It is precisely because we are not ready for everything that we must show the world there are still things Germany will kill for."
He turned toward the map hanging on the wall.
"If we retreat even now, when another country has armed itself on our land and slaughtered our people there, then what we lose is not only Danzig. We lose our standing. We lose our name. We prove to every state in Europe that Germany can be carved at will, and that no matter how much blood is taken from her, she will still bow her head and ask for terms."
Hindenburg slowly nodded.
At that moment, he felt more keenly than ever that the man before him no longer resembled the ambitious but still somewhat restrained younger politician he had once cultivated.
Jörg had become something more dangerous.
More decisive.
More ruthless.
And, in a way that shook even Hindenburg, more like the Germany of old than many men twice his age.
Less than thirty years old, Hindenburg thought, and already speaking as though history itself had chosen him.
"Very well," Hindenburg said at last. "When do you move?"
"In one week."
"Then in one week, the speech will be given."
He ground the cigarette out in the tray and straightened with visible effort.
"I will see to it that the photographs are leaked. You will address the German people in my name. The economy is failing, and the country is full of smothered fire. All of Germany is waiting for a reason."
His cloudy eyes sharpened.
"Give them one."
Jörg's back straightened instantly.
Hindenburg pointed toward the east as if he could already see the sea beyond the borderlands.
"I want every beast that dares bare its teeth at Germany to feel the burn of it."
Jörg saluted.
"Yes, sir."
Hindenburg nodded once.
"Then I will see you in Danzig."
Jörg held the salute for a breath longer, then lowered his arm.
"Yes, sir," he repeated, quieter this time, but with a force that seemed to bind the promise into steel. "See you in Danzig."
.....
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